


Telephone Line

by Landen_Blair



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama & Romance, Electric Light Orchestra - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FrUK, M/M, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20325418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Landen_Blair/pseuds/Landen_Blair
Summary: England lets his insecurities get between his relationship with France and ends up regretting it.





	Telephone Line

_Hello? How are you?_

Only dial-tone. No answer.

_ Have you been alright through all these lonely nights?  _

Arthur swallowed back tears, bottom lip quivering. He wanted to speak these words, but probably wouldn't gain the courage to even if they picked up. Maybe it was a good thing the French bastard wasn't answering, otherwise Arthur'd make a fool of himself, a bubbling, incoherent mess trying to explain himself. 

He set the phone down with enough force to arouse a painful click and stepped back.  _ I'll call you again momentarily...  _ By then, he would have pep-talked himself into some sort of dignity.  _ Man up, own your emotions,  _ the Frenchman would always say.  _ Tell me how you really feel.  _

_ I'm trying,  _ Arthur sighed, inwardly, nibbling at his lower lip.  _ I'm trying.  _ By now, his lips were red and swollen from his pathetic sobbing and biting.  _ I'm afraid. _

Francis had always encouraged him to be open about his feelings, his anxiety, his insecurities. Though the Englishman was great at masking them, Francis could easily see through his guise and almost always knew when something was bothering his Arthur. Such was the price of knowing each other for a thousand years. 

Weeks, at precisely two thirty-one on a Monday afternoon, the sky grey and patched with clouds (in the midsts of a Parisian summer, he should've known that was the first indication of a bad day), they had gone through another argument. It should've been like all the others. A quick, half-hearted disagreement settled with make-up sex. But it wasn't. 

Arthur had started it. Of course he had. He always did. He would find something, anything, a choice of words or actions, to criticize and then it escalated from there. Maybe Francis had been a little too touchy that morning for Arthur's liking, but he knew he shouldn't have attacked his Frenchman for his loving hands. 

"You never take me seriously!" Francis had growled, the fury evident in his raised shoulders and locks of golden hair that shook with his unsettled movements. Whenever he was angry, he was erratic. Physically and mentally. Whenever Arthur was angry, he was the exact opposite. Stiff as a board and voice low until his growl was brought to a roar when defending himself against Francis's attacks. 

The Frenchman had slammed his fist onto the counter. While Arthur hadn't let it show, the action had startled him and stirred his fast-beating heart even more."I am affectionate with you. I ask you to open up to me but you do the opposite. I tell you how much you mean to me and you just  shrug  it off and give me that same, unbelieving scowl." 

Arthur rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to fight back, but Francis stopped him. 

"See? You're doing it now. You can't argue. Shall I show you a mirror?"

Stubbornly, the Englishmen had uncrossed his nervous arms. "You never respect my space. Maybe I don't want your groping hands in the morning when I'm hungover." 

Francis had thrown his arms in the air. "Clearly, our definitions of respect are quite different." His eyes had lost the warm hue that reminded Arthur of a beautiful spring sky. Instead, they had been cold, icy spheres. If it was possible to shoot daggers with such a glare. Arthur was sure he'd be bleeding to death by now. 

" Clearly ," Arthur had agreed, though he had known that sort of agreement would not be appreciated during the moment. 

Francis had continued. "You never accept any of my affections anymore. Even if it is as much of a hug. I'm not Portugal. I'm not always trying to have my way with you." 

The mention of that name had sent a shiver down Arthur's spine and he stepped forward. Now, the wolf was beginning to show its teeth. "Don't you  dare  bring up that name." 

"Or what, sourcils?" It had hurt Arthur to have that name used against him. Francis had always used it as a term of endearment. Never in a fight. "What will you do when faced with the facts?" 

" Shut up!"  Arthur had bellowed. "Shut up. Shut up. _Shut up!_" There was a bad taste in his mouth then. Half of him was screaming to apologize. Of course Francis was right, he respected Arthur's boundaries without sex constantly on his mind. The other half urged him to defend himself. 

And that was Arthur's fatal flaw. When attacked, even cornered, he would continue snarling, lips curled back and hackles raised. Even if he was wrong, he never backed down in the heat of the moment. Unfortunately, Francis, the dancing swordsman, never liked backing down either. 

But then, the Frenchman was growing strangely calm. He had turned away, masking the tears starting in his hurt expression. Arthur had been naive to think Francis would admit his own fault.

"_Get out._" Francis's voice had sounded so faint. So quiet. So pained. Just that sound had ripped away at Arthur's barrier of defense more efficiently than any choice set of pointed words. "Get out. I don't want to see you again." 

And Arthur had wanted to take back everything. His words, his scowl, his roughness toward Francis when his lover had only been rubbing the tense spots of his hungover body. He had stepped closer, but then thought better of it and turned heel. 

They hadn't seen each other sense. The first night, they lost their streak of daily phone-calls. It wasn't a very high streak, considering the fact that the two of them seemed to be the busiest in the world, but perhaps it hurt Arthur so much because they had never intentionally lost it. 

By the end of the first week, Arthur was an emotional wreck and had gotten over his anger. "I'm a bastard," he muttered, fingering the coiled wire of the telephone, hoping Francis would answer. He didn't, and he wouldn't for the next few weeks. 

It was the longest time they had gone without each other, and it was killing him more than the Black Plague had. Well, maybe not literally, but definitely emotionally. If only he had been honest with Francis. If only he had told him why exactly his lover's tenderness had sparked such a reaction. 

Anger was Arthur's primary defense. He was a spitting cat, a growling animal, cornered and dangerous, but scared. When someone had lowered the wall he had built, he was terrified. Terrified of growing close to someone again. Terrified of having them ultimately use him. Betray him. Of course he wouldn't let it show; he covered his fright by fighting.

_Please, let it ring a little longer,_ Arthur willed, hand clasping the telephone. He had called everyday this week, hoping for an answer. Hoping for a chance to explain himself. 

Finally, after the third dial, there was an answer. Arthur jumped. He wasn't expecting Francis to pick up, and when he did, the Englishman began to stammer up a response. 

"Make it quick, Arthur. I don't have a lot of time right now." 

Something about the tone of his words let Arthur know that he was lying. Regardless, he cleared his throat to hopefully chase away the weak edge to his voice and come off as determined and sincere. 

"I've been a bloody douche, Francis." 

He could feel the deadpan through the phone. "And an asshole. A bastard." 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Arthur forced back a defensive remark and sighed. Francis was right. "You're right. Yes. I am. But I'm sorry, Francis. Please believe me. I want to talk to you." 

The silence emanating from the other end of the line encouraged Arthur to continue. 

"I... I've just been afraid... You were right to bring him up," these words stung, as if his own tongue was cutting himself, "because I still feel anxiety whenever I'm with you. You're different, but... I can't..." he struggled to find the words. God, the movies made this kind of thing, apologizing and listing one's doubts and struggles, seem so easy. Or maybe it really was, and Arthur was just as terrible at it as he was everything else. Including relationships. 

Francis must've taken pity on him, for he also sighed. "I know, Arthur." 

"I haven't gotten over it yet..." 

"It's a scar. Scars don't fade easily." 

"But scars don't excuse me from treating you such as I did," Arthur countered. 

"No, but they do let me into your thoughts a little bit." 

Arthur released his finger from the tense spring of wire and lifted his hand to his mop of hair. Silence occupied the space between them. He wasn't sure how long it lasted, the awkward space, but he did know he wanted to breach the gap that he had forced. 

"I miss you." 

A few seconds rolled on before the Frenchman responded. "I'm not working tomorrow. I'll be over soon." 

And then Francis hung up without giving him a chance to respond. Arthur didn't mind, and set to showering and cleaning himself up. 

It was nine in the evening when the Frenchman arrived. Arthur had occupied his time waiting by making his mess of a bed and throwing away the boxes of takeout that haunted his fridge. Francis would have blown a fit if he had seen it.

When Francis stepped inside, a pair of trembling arms wrapped around him and pulled him into a tight hug. 

Arthur relished in the calloused fingers that found his hair and stroked it, and the gentle hand that rubbed patterns into his back. "I'm sorry," he mewled into Francis's shoulder. A part of that apology was directed toward the stain he's sure his tears would leave in the expensive jacket his lover wore. Only a small portion of that apology, however. The rest went to everything else. 

"I'm here, Arthur. I forgive you." He felt Francis step back and leaned into the palm that cradled his cheek. "I love you. No matter what, you know that?" 

Arthur anchored his head in a slow nod. 

"You don't have to worry about me leaving you." 

The arms found him again, cradling him and holding him. Arthur grasped his Frenchman tightly. An eternity could have passed and Arthur could still be enjoying his embrace. 

And here was Francis's love. Unconditional, unchanging love. His arms and gentle, forgiving eyes radiated with it. Deep down, Arthur knew Francis wasn't like the past. He wasn't going anywhere. They had centuries together, a thousand years. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're an ELO fan, I hope you got this obvious reference. Telephone Line is one of my favorite songs, and after singing this on the highway home I got the idea for this little one-shot.
> 
> I'm open to any sort of criticism/ideas as long as they are constructive and friendly. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
